Thus passed away two lustrums of her life, yet my daughter remained nameless upon the earth. 'My child' and 'my love' were the designations usually prompted by a father's affection, and the rigid seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. Morella's name died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the daughter—it was impossible to speak. Indeed during the brief period of her existence the latter had received no impressions from the outward world but such as might have been afforded by the narrow limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism presented to my mind in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present deliverance from the horrors of my destiny. And at the baptismal font I hesitated for a name. And many titles of the wise and beautiful, of antique and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, came thronging to my lips—and many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy and the good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the buried dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which, in its very recollection, was wont to make ebb and flow the purple blood in tides from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of the night, I shrieked within the ears of the holy man the syllables, Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of my child and overspread them with the hues of death, as, starting at that sound, she turned her glassy eyes from the Earth to Heaven, and falling prostrate upon the black slabs of her ancestral vault, responded 'I am here!'
Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct—like a knell of death—horrible, horrible death, sank the eternal sounds within my soul. Years—years may roll away, but the memory of that epoch—never! Now was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine—but the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my Fate faded from Heaven, and, therefore, my spirit grew dark, and the figures of the earth passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only—Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore—Morella. But she died, and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb, and I laughed, with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the charnel where I laid the second—Morella.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
CONTENT'S MISHAP:
A VERITABLE HISTORY.
BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE.
| CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot Beside a stream with music flowing, Embower'd in shade—a verdant spot— Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing. There NATURE lavish of her store Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain; A soft entrancing aspect wore, And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain. Within the cot where dwelt the maid PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion, And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd, But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion. There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal With simple food from NATURE'S bounty; And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill Of all the Doctors in the county. One morning PRIDE, a city belle, In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring, The fragrant meads for once to smell, That way had driven to take an airing. By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down A shower to cool the sultry weather, When PRIDE protested with a frown, 'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather. CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by, And thither PRIDE her car directed: Welcomed with homely courtesy, She smiled to find her dress protected. The first brief salutations o'er, PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage, Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor— And turn'd her nose up at the pottage. Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke: "I wonder so genteel a maiden Should dwell in this secluded nook, As dull as ever hermit pray'd in. 'Tis shameful such a form and face Should hide themselves in this mean hovel: That so much loveliness and grace Should with such stupid people grovel. How would you grace those splendid halls Where I and PLEASURE lead the million! There you would shine at routes and balls, Queen of the waltz and gay cotillion. These humdrum folks you live with now Are cut by all who aim at fashion: To see you so beset, I vow, It puts me quite into a passion. Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing, Fit only for the chimney corner, To listen while the crickets sing, And teach the brats their Jacky Horner. PLENTY is well enough 'tis true, Where hungry peasants gorge their rations; But her rude fare would never do, For FASHION'S delicate collations. And LOVE,—who once was all the rage, And turn'd the heads of half the city, Dealing his shafts on youth and age, As you have learnt from many a ditty— Has long been voted quite a bore, He made so many a sad miscarriage; And now, the part he play'd before, CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage. This rustic-looking, sheepish boy I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,— Whom once I knew so full of joy— He looks so quiet and so stupid. I cannot bear that you should dwell In such a lonely sequestration, When you might reign a city belle, And taste the sweets of admiration. Come then, nor longer tarry here In this retreat so lone and dreary: In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear, Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary." The artless nymph, ta'en unawares, Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation; But still she fear'd the City's snares, And answer'd with great hesitation. She said a happy life she led, That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd Tho' tenant of an humble shed, Here all the joys she ask'd for centred. But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin, That so perversely she should prattle, When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in That moment—closed the wordy battle. HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear— What 'twas I never could discover,— But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear CONTENT'S resistance all was over. Suffice to say, the car was brought, The ladies in it soon were seated: PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought, The valley from their vision fleeted. 'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her; But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt On all the happiness design'd her. * * * * * Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid CONTENT became another creature; Such art was in her form display'd, She needed not the charms of nature. * * * * * Behold our country maiden now! In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant; Before her throng'd admirers bow; Her beauty was pronounced transcendent. In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer; And while the novelty remain'd, Her wild career did not alarm her. Months pass'd in one continued round Of parties, balls, and routes and levees, And tired CONTENT at length had found No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies. Jaded in this unceasing maze, Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid: PRIDE only could her spirits raise, And oft her melancholy rallied. But long even PRIDE could not hold out; Sorely the maid her change repented— Her dreams had all been put to route— CONTENT was sadly discontented. One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen The maiden since she sought the City, To make a flying call, popp'd in,— And saw her alter'd looks with pity. "Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT: "Why did you flatter and deceive me— Why urge the step I now repent, And be the first to scorn and leave me. Oh, but for you, deceitful friend, I still had lived untouched by SORROW, Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend, Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow. I might have dwelt, a happy maid, With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion, Afar from FASHION'S dull parade, Her endless throngs of gay confusion. Fain would I to my cottage fly, But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me; And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh With some delusive tale dissuades me." HOPE, with a woman's ready wit, From all reproach herself defended; And forced her listner to admit Her counsel "for the best" intended. * * * * * CONTENT at length "made up her mind" ('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,) To leave the bustling town behind, And seek again her humble dwelling. 'Twas a bright morn in early Spring, When, HOPE her languid steps attending, Through vales where birds were on the wing, To that lone cot the maid was wending. The sun shone bright on hill and lea, The flowers from leafy shades were peeping; The brook ran murmuring merrily, And flocks were in the valleys leaping. The Cottage reach'd, she met once more The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces; JOY lit the maiden's eye again, And from her brow chased sorrow's traces. Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow, Her languid frame with strength induing, The blood resumed its wonted flow, The roses on her cheeks renewing. HOPE views the change with fond delight; Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever; Controls each wild impassion'd flight, And points where mercy beams forever. What more could Providence bestow To yield CONTENT an added blessing? Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow, To Heaven its gratitude addressing. And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:— Their joyless strife she once has felt, And cannot be again deluded. Oft have I seen the humble roof, Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting, She dwells, from worldly cares aloof, Even while her story I am writing. |